Fifty Shades of Gay

Being stood-up by someone is probably the most humiliating and defeating experience one can experience in the dating world. It had happened to me several times before, but this time hurt the most.

I had been chatting with a man named Roberto through Growlr, and I ended the conversation by giving him my number. I did this, because it’s much easier to text people than to continue communicating through an app that kills your phone battery. Much to my surprise, though, he called me later that evening. To be fair, he wasn’t a Millennial like me. Roberto was comfortable with calling a stranger rather than hiding behind a screen.

We didn’t talk for long. Honestly, he probably just wanted to hear my voice to make sure I didn’t sound like a psychopath. And when we wrapped up the conversation, he mentioned that he had to turn in early to get up early for a conference in the morning. I asked him where the conference was being held, because I work in corporate meeting planning and care about stuff like that.

As fate would have it, the conference was being held at the very hotel I work at. Romantic images from the movie “Serendipity” flooded my imagination. This had to be a sign! We were mutually excited that we would actually be seeing each other in person the very next day.

I texted him in the morning, and we set up a little rendezvous on property to officially meet.

“You’re even more handsome than I thought you would be,” he said, charmingly.
“Oh, no, it’s just the suit,” I said, unable to take a compliment. He looked amazing, mostly because he was one of those people who actually enjoys working out and lifting heavy things. His muscles were barely contained by his dress shirt.

We chatted and flirted lightly for a little while before he had to return to session. And we agreed to head out for lunch together later to get some privacy.

I drove him to one of my favorite cafés, and we had an absolutely perfect time getting to know each other better. We cut right to the chase and discussed what we were looking for in a significant other. It was a match made in heaven, or so it seemed.

Roberto placed his hand on my thigh as we drove back to the hotel. I purposely pulled into a parking spot in the corner of our lot that was somewhat out of view. I moved his hand to my crotch and made out with him shamelessly until he had to return to his colleagues.

We continued to text each other throughout the day, both half-assing our way through work responsibilities. I wanted more time with him, so I asked if he would be interested in meeting me out for a drink later that night. People often say “a drink” when they really mean “many drinks”, I’ve come to find. I had fallen into the same habit.

I beautified myself at home and headed out to my favorite gay bar. It was relatively quiet in there, being that it was a weeknight. I think it’s rude to invite a date out to someplace loud where you can’t even hear each other. Maybe I’m just getting old. But, ultimately, it would not matter. Roberto never showed up.

When I came to realize the fate of my evening, the bartender couldn’t help but notice my sorrow. He poured me my usual drink – a double vodka soda. An older transgender woman next to me somehow knew my plight.

“What’s the matter, honey, get stood up?” she asked sympathetically.
“Don’t worry about it, he was going to drop you like a rock anyway. He’s not the right guy for you. You haven’t met him yet, but you will be much more domesticated by this time next year. You’ll see.”

I kept my head down, unsure of how to respond. She was spouting out some kind of intuitive bullshit I wasn’t in the mood to hear. She may have been right, but it didn’t matter to me in that moment. I thanked her politely and moved to a small table to be left alone with my thoughts.

My pity party for one was quickly interrupted by a boisterous woman – a butch lesbian.
“You got quarters for pool?” she asked loudly.
“Yeah, sure.” I grabbed a dollar out of my wallet. “The bartender will give you change.”
“Thanks! You wanna play?”

I didn’t want to play, really, but I thought it might make me feel better. I used to be quite the billiards man back in Vegas. Maybe it would take my mind off of the rejection I would otherwise continue to dwell on.

We got the balls rolling, so to speak, and it didn’t take long for me to realize she was far too drunk to accomplish much of anything on the table. Yet she somehow felt it necessary to critique every single shot of mine and even endeavored to make herself my coach. She lost, of course, and insisted on playing another round.

“I’m gonna go outside and find someone with a cigarette,” I said, hoping it would steer her away from me. Much to my chagrin, she followed me out to the patio and waved down a group of her supposed friends.
“Let’s just sit with them!” she shouted. Volume control was lost to her, though I wasn’t entirely convinced she sounded any differently sober.

I was reluctant to sit down at first until my eyes fell upon a handsome bearded Mexican man that was right up my alley. He gave me the seductive eye as I strategically placed myself next to him.

“What’s your name?” he asked, curling his upper lip. His eyes sparkled like diamonds through a cloud of smoke. The rest of the table disappeared to us as we had our sights locked onto each other like targets.

“You doing anything tonight? You wanna come over to my place?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah, sure, that would be great.” I wasn’t quite as cool and collected.
“Oh, it’s just so easy for you gays, isn’t it?” the lesbian girl blurted out, perhaps attempting to ruin the moment – a failed wedge.

I followed Alex back to his place where he would introduce me to the duplex he shared with his brother. Although we were both intoxicated, he poured us a round of drinks – strong drinks. We sat on the front patio shooting the breeze, joined by Alex’s brother, his wife, and a group of raucous dogs. Indistinguishable music played quietly in the background as we all slipped further down the rabbit hole of inebriation.

Alex stood up suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. He walked through the door leading to his side of the house.

“Is he going to bed?” I asked Alex’s brother.
“Probably. You should too,” he said, winking.

I hadn’t yet been shown this side of the home, so I wandered aimlessly for a bit before finding Alex naked on a bed. His eyes followed me as I approached him, and with a silent nod he commanded me to remove my own clothing – I did not disobey.

He passed me a bottle of poppers, and I inhaled liberally. A familiar buzz filled my head as I brought my lips to his. We made out intensely, his teeth biting me every so often. I could feel his erection throbbing against me. I thirsted for it to be in my mouth. He stood up and I ran my tongue down his body.

“Yeah, suck it,” he said, pushing his cock to the back of my throat. He had a firm grip on my hair to the point where I worried he might rip it out. I tried to pull back to get some air, but he shoved my head down mercilessly. My vision started to tunnel and blacken.

“This is it,” I thought to myself. “This is what I get for going home to a stranger. No one knows where I am. I’ve messed up. He’s going to choke me to death.” Adrenaline pumped through my veins, but he was just too strong for me to overcome.
But suddenly, he stopped. I gasped for oxygen to fill my innocent lungs.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned. The game had changed. He wasn’t trying to kill me after all; he was just into some kinky shit. I got up and wrestled him down onto his bed. Herculean strength surged through me as we rolled around naked fighting each other. It was more a competition than a sexual encounter. I managed to flip him onto his stomach and held him down by the back of his neck.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, trying to squirm out of my grip. I pushed down harder.
“Yeah.” I spit into my free hand and lubricated us both. I penetrated him deeply on the first thrust, and the fight was over. Alex surrendered to his submissive side and positioned his ass upward to be fucked forcefully while he jerked off. The sound of our flesh colliding echoed against the walls.

“Fuck the cum out of me!” he screamed, placing his hands to reach a push-up position. I was surprised how naturally this role came to me, as I had never been so sexually aggressive in my life. It felt good to hold power over someone, while knowing they were in ecstasy. I pounded him harder until he had no choice but to orgasm, hands-free.

Alex collapsed onto the bed, and I stood up, panting like a beast. I didn’t feel like myself, but this was exactly what I needed after being stood up by Roberto. Alex closed his eyes, and I laid down to hold him in my arms.

He fell asleep almost immediately, snoring softly. It was a moment of serenity after the preceding chaos. This mysterious man of rage was now filled with peace. I fucked him into a coma, I decided. And with that, I quietly dressed myself and left. It didn’t seem right to stay – my work there was done.



I know at least a good handful of people, both men and women, who would love to be taken care of by a sugar daddy. Prior to falling in love with my fiancé, I would have considered myself open to the idea. It gets tiring busting your ass all day, being undervalued by some corporate entity that sees you as an expendable resource. The American Dream is dead for most of us, but there’s still hope in becoming a spoiled housewife. And although I never advertised myself as looking for a rich man’s attention, I would be confronted with it nonetheless.

I was messaged on Grindr by a small blond man whose age was indistinguishable due to his youthful attire and “alternative” hair style. But I knew he was older than he would ever care to admit. When I showed my best friend his profile picture, he commented that he looked like an anime character. He wasn’t wrong. Avery looked like he just popped out of an episode of “Naruto”.

Our small talk didn’t last too painfully long before we decided to set up a date for brunch. If you don’t already know, gays love brunch. I mean, everyone probably loves brunch, but we really own it. He picked a place I had never been to, and we agreed to meet outside the restaurant the very next day. He was sure to tell me the exact car he would be pulling up in, which ended up being the most expensive Mercedes I’ve ever seen. He zipped past me through the parking lot. I wondered if he was one of those people who lives in some shithole apartment, but makes a concerted effort to afford a sports car.

Avery walked toward me with a practiced swag, his long pointed hair blowing gently in the wind. The sunglasses he was wearing were probably worth more than my entire closet at home. It seemed to take forever for him to finally reach me, but his stride was awfully small.

He greeted me with a smile revealing veneers and the nasally voice of a lifelong smoker – like Macy Gray with a head cold. I wasn’t super thrilled by it, but there we were.
The place was busy, so we were only able to get seating up at the bar. It was a nice distraction though, seeing chefs scramble to put together breakfast pizzas and the like.

We each ordered our own carafe of mimosas, because that’s really what brunch is for – an excuse to drink alcohol before noon. The menu was too expensive, in my opinion, so I ordered the cheapest thing I could find. Avery did just the opposite.

Our conversation turned to work and what we both did for a living. I gave the briefest of histories on my past and current experience in hotel management including my stint in Vegas. His eyes lit up when I mentioned that – The City of Sin.

Avery told me all about his many travels around the country, including Vegas. He only spent a few nights of the week in Austin; the rest were spent in Starwood hotels. He specifically frequented the hotel I used to work for, and it was quite possible we’d been there together at the same time on many occasions. Small world.

He worked for a company that had something to do with saving other companies money on health insurance. I didn’t really care to wrap my head around it beyond that. The car wasn’t just for show, this man made a ton of money.

I hated talking about hotels, but the conversation was careening down that path despite my attempts to derail it. We finally wrapped things up, and I honestly wasn’t sure what to think of him. He was cute in a way, although not my usual type, and walked a fine line between charm and ego. I was pleased he picked up the tab, whether it was out of chivalry or showmanship.

Avery walked me to my car, and we stalled for a bit. There’s just no way to get around the anxiety that builds up to a first kiss. I am typically the one to just pull the trigger to get it over with – such was the case here. His lips and tongue were strangely soft, but he was a good kisser. I felt like a giant next to him.

We parted ways without making any definite future plans, being that his travel schedule was so busy. But it was only later that week I received a text from him asking if I would like to come over and watch a movie. Now this was before the phrase “Netflix and chill” came about, but I figured he was initiating a booty call. In the gay world, that qualifies as a second date anyway.

To my surprise, he mentioned that we would not be having sex in his following message after I agreed to come over. I liked that he was so straight forward and hopefully looking for something more than a hookup. I needed to spend more time with him to really know if he was the right guy for me, though.

Avery didn’t live too far from me, but his neighborhood wasn’t in the ghetto like mine. In fact the houses I was passing by were modern residential marvels. I traversed a maze of roads, losing track of my turns, before finding this man’s house. And what a house it was.

He was waiting for me in the entryway to the garage, perhaps just to casually remind me again of his superior vehicle as we passed by. I followed him inside and had to hold back my awe and wonder as my eyes fell upon the most luxurious home I could imagine.

“Do you like it?” he asked, already knowing damn well that only a jaded fool would be unimpressed.
“Yes, it’s amazing,” I said, thinking of my own miserable little place – embarrassing. His kitchen was larger than my entire apartment.
“Does the theme look familiar?” It did, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “It’s just like the Westin! You should see the bedroom upstairs.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said nonchalantly. This man stayed in Westin hotels so often, he turned his own house into a haunting doppelganger.

Avery directed me to the living room boasting an impossibly large couch and a television that could serve as a wall. I could see dollar signs everywhere I looked. We sat down and agreed to watch an episode of “Nashville”, one of my favorite shows, and his. (don’t judge). Before he settled in, Avery walked back into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I saw him reach into a satchel on the island and somewhat discreetly pull something out. He tilted his head back and threw what I assumed were pills into his mouth before swallowing them down.

I immediately jumped to conclusions. He clearly had a lot of expendable income, it would make sense that he could afford a drug addiction. Or was I just being paranoid? It could have been anything, I assured myself. This was just PTSD from a previous addict I once loved.

He came back to the couch and positioned himself as the small spoon. Being so petite, Avery fit into my body like a puzzle piece. It was relaxing at first, until I noticed something odd as I ran my fingers through his hair. He was sweating profusely.

“Are you okay?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yeah, yeah, I just run hot,” he replied, lying through his teeth. He turned his head to kiss me, and we made out for what seemed like forever. I didn’t like the idea of him being under the influence of a drug, but I caved to temptation. I wanted attention. “You’re not having sex with me tonight,” he said, this time slurring his words together.
“I know, you mentioned that earlier…” I said, wondering what he was really after. He pressed his lips hard against mine looking straight into my eyes.
“Uh oh,” he said almost whimsically.
“What?” I asked hesitantly.
“I think I’m falling. I shouldn’t, but, I’m falling.” He rested his head against my chest. “Your heart is beating so fast…”
“I think you should go to bed, Avery.” It was his own heartbeat that was elevated.
“Yeah, let’s go.” I had no intention of spending the night, but I wanted to make sure I got him to his bed safely. I was hardly able to understand him, and even walking became an issue.

I followed him up the stairs, ready for him to fall backwards at any moment sending us both cascading downward. By some miracle, we advanced into his sprawling bedroom. He stripped down to his underwear and asked me to lay down with him. I weighed my options and decided to stay, despite my gut feeling not to. I have extraordinary intuition and a bad habit of going against it. I removed my clothes and climbed into bed. Using a remote, he turned on extremely loud trance music. I was deafened and lost in a moment of surrealism. What was this?

He rolled toward me to put his hands on my body and struggled to climb on top of me. Clearly he was horny, and his initial notion of us not having sex seemed to have flown out the window.
“You’re not gonna fuck me,” he said. I stared at him silently, though he was obviously waiting for some kind of response. He continued to grind and gyrate against my skin. At some point, he managed to get his underwear off. And then mine. He reached back to grope my balls.

A terrible thought popped into my head: “Thou doth protest too much.”
Was he expecting me to just take and ravage him to fulfill a rape fantasy he’s been after? Or is he just fucked up and trying to push me to some kind of limit? It sure seemed like he wanted to be tossed around, but I knew I couldn’t take that chance. Especially with him being under the influence of some drug that seemed to be affecting him more and more – perhaps his judgment the most.

Before I was able to say anything he rolled off of me and passed out almost immediately. The speakers were still blaring, and yet I could hear bear-like snores erupting out of him. For being so tiny, it was astounding. Is this what Avery wanted? To knock himself out so I could take advantage of him? My mind was racing, unsure of how to get myself out of this situation, this mess.

THUMP – he fell out of the bed onto the floor.

I jumped up expecting to see an awakened, disoriented imp staring up at me. But no, he was knocked out cold. I needed to get out of there. Looking through the darkness, I scanned the room for my clothes. “Where are they?” I said aloud. And then I realized exactly where they were – underneath Avery’s body. Shit.

I knelt down and gently pushed on what felt like a sweaty corpse to gain access to my clothing, not wanting to wake him up. Was it even possible to rouse him in this state? It was. As he began to stir, I grabbed the articles and hastily dressed myself. Avery climbed back up onto the bed like a sloth, looking at me, or perhaps through me.

“What are you doing?” he asked, sounding quietly perplexed.
“I’m sorry, I need to leave. Are you okay? Do you want a glass of water?”
“What? You’re leaving?” he shouted over the blaring beat of some EDM track.
“Yeah, I can’t sleep, I need to go.” My tone was dull and flat.
“No, no, don’t leave me. I’m going to be alone forever!” he pleaded. This was getting worse by the second. I didn’t know what to say, because I suspected he might be right.
“Don’t leave…don’t go…” he slowly trailed off into tearful silence for a moment. “I’m falling for you…I can take care of you…”Avery made more money than I could ever dream of, and this was a pathetic last attempt to keep me from leaving. The broken crutch of a desperate wannabe sugar daddy with a drug addiction.

An older version of myself might have stayed. But I was done being a fool. I was done making sacrifices for people who didn’t deserve it. And I was done with people who had no real sense of what they wanted or needed. It pained me to see him so upset, though I wondered if he would even have memories of this exchange the next day. He wasn’t falling for me, not truly. And I certainly wasn’t falling for him.

“I deserve better than this,” I said more to myself than to him as I exited the room and made my way to the stairs. “And so do you.”

Third Leg

Browsing dating apps can be tedious and overwhelming, especially if you’re looking for someone of substance. I’ve had more penis pictures sent to me than I could count. Don’t get me wrong, I do love a well photographed package, but it doesn’t exactly set the tone for relationship goals.

I found a man named Anthony online who looked very presentable and had a well-written profile biography. More often than not, guys don’t even bother to fill them out. Or they will simply put in some sexual bullshit with improper grammar and odd symbols.

Speaking of symbols, can we just take a moment to figure out how an eggplant is supposed to represent a dick? If my dick were shaped like an eggplant, I would have some concerns. Cucumbers? Sure. Even a banana. I’ve seen a lot of cocks in my day, and I can’t say any one of them remind me of a bulbous vegetable of uneven proportions. I digress…

After some small talk, Anthony and I began sharing our passions, hobbies, favorite things, etc. He used to work for Disney, and he was obsessed with Harry Potter. What more could I want in a man?

He lived in up in Leander, which is a suburb of Austin no one cares about. We decided to meet for a date in Cedar Park, which is a slightly closer suburb of Austin no one cares about.

I dressed to impress and headed up to the sports bar he suggested. Ironically, we’d soon find out that neither of us cared much for sports. But it was a good location all the same, and we were able to sit down and get to know each other better.

Neither of us ordered any food, or even beer – just water. I’m not sure what his reasons were, but I didn’t want to be the only one digging into a greasy basket of cheese sticks and chugging down cheap booze.

We spent several hours together before deciding to wrap it up. I knew we wouldn’t be spending the night together, which is the most common fairy tale ending to first dates in the gay world. He still lived with his parents, because he had just moved back from Florida. As it would turn out, they were Pentecostal Bible thumpers who disapproved of homosexuality. His mother was sleeping with two men at the time of Anthony’s conception, because adultery is apparently not sinful. This resulted in him having an estranged biological father than he never got to meet. He was raised instead by his mother’s husband, and he was often reminded of it during arguments. Anthony’s biological father was black, and being the only biracial member of his white family did not make matters any better.

He walked me to my car, and we both hesitated in that awkward time warp trying to decide if we should kiss and who should initiate. I get uncomfortable and impatient in that situation pretty quickly, so I got up on the tip of my toes to reach his lips. I’m above average in height, but Anthony loomed over me. A parking lot isn’t very romantic, so we didn’t kiss for long. And before parting ways, we made plans to see each other again soon to do karaoke.

Before driving away, I texted a couple of my friends who wanted to know how the evening went. I filled them in on the details, and they were all happy to hear the good report. One of my friends jested about him being half black and accused me of being a size queen. Because all black men have to have giant dicks, right? I’m not a fan of stereotypes, but at least that one is somewhat complimentary.

The night of our karaoke date came quickly, and he drove all the way into downtown Austin to meet me at my favorite spot. Unlike last time, we both decided to indulge in rounds of beer. I justified it would make our voices sound “better” while performing songs. He was too intimidated to sing in front of people, unfortunately. But I did lure him into my clutches with my own siren songs.

I returned to our table and suggested he stay with me overnight instead of driving all the way back to Leander, especially after drinking. I’m pretty sure he was planning on that already, but I extended the invitation anyway. And, of course, he obliged.

When we got to my apartment, there was no time wasted in pawing at each other’s clothes and throwing them around. There was a path of debris heading right to my bed.
He hit the lights before I got to see him naked, but he certainly felt good. He had a large, sturdy build with a well defined chest and unbelievable biceps.

We laid in bed making out for a while, running our hands down each other’s bodies. I wasn’t in the mood to invest much more time into foreplay, so I climbed on top of him. My hand reached back for that moment of truth, because size does matter to a degree. Anyone who says otherwise is either ashamed or being polite. But something didn’t feel right.
I wasn’t able to process what my hand was grasping at first. “What is that?” I thought to myself. I finally realized I was, in fact, touching his penis. It was so gigantic in both girth and length, it felt like an actual third leg.

“Holy shit, Anthony!” I shouted, dismounting from my straddled position.
“I know, I know, I should have told you, I’m so sorry!” he pleaded.
“No, no… it’s okay, just…”

Just what? I didn’t know what to say. I reached for it again to measure for size. It was monstrous and fascinating. Certainly larger than any phallic fruit or vegetable I had ever seen. It was like holding onto a burly man’s forearm. I wanted him to have a big dick, but this was outrageous. I’d never even seen a porn star be so well endowed. Was there a such thing as gigantism of the genitals?

“Wow, what do you feed that thing?” I said, stupidly.
“It’s always been this way,” he said, defeated. I felt terrible for him. This man seriously had such a large penis, he was hardly ever able to use it. I’ve pitied men born with little willies, but had never even considered the other extreme.

I decided I would try to at least give him a blowjob. But when I tried to put his wiener in my mouth, it wouldn’t fit. I was trying to unhinge my jaw like a snake. It was the most pathetic attempt at oral sex I could fathom. I stayed down there for a while trying my best, but ultimately it was a fruitless endeavor.

He returned the favor before grinding himself on top of me. I realized that it was the only way he could really get sexual pleasure without having to ask his partner to prepare himself by carrying a wine bottle around in his ass.

“What’s your wildest fantasy?” he asked me. It was a terrible question that I hated being presented with. My brain went completely blank. I felt so vanilla in that moment.
“I don’t know, what about you?” I pivoted.
“Pinch my nipples!” he shouted. “Harder!”

Nipple play is nothing new to me, but this guy was seriously into it. I worried that I was going to twist them right off if I squeezed any harder. Instead, he unleashed a fire hose of cum onto my body that splashed onto my sheets as well.

He collapsed onto the pillows, exhausted. I cleaned myself off with a towel and rested my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. It was then that a sickening thought crossed my mind. I realized there was no hope in continuing to date Anthony. I wanted to be able to have penetrative sex with my partner. I felt selfish for having to admit that to myself, but I knew I wouldn’t be physically satisfied with this otherwise perfect man.

We woke up together the next morning and said our goodbyes. He mentioned our next date, and I was careful not to lead him on or hurt his feelings. It wasn’t his fault, after all. I sulked back to my bed and laid there, trapped with my own battling thoughts. How was I going to explain to everyone that I couldn’t date Anthony? Because his penis is too big? What a problem to have…


I began my career in hospitality and hotel management in Las Vegas just after the recession hit. It certainly wasn’t my childhood dream come true, but it paid the bills. There are certain perks to working in a hotel, primarily being able to relocate easily and travel for leisure on an employee rate. It wasn’t until I found employment in an Austin hotel that I had the pleasure of experiencing a new benefit that finally presented itself – a horny guest.

On a particularly mundane day at work I stood at the front desk overseeing the usual operations and guest interactions. One of my associates was approached by a man who politely asked if he could check in. I welcomed him to the property and proceeded to busy myself with some administrative work at my terminal as he was being stepped through the arrival process. I looked up before he turned toward the elevators to find him beaming at me.

Moments later the phone rang, and my front desk agent answered cheerfully. Most of us in the hotel industry, including her, hate the constant barrage of guest complaints and requests, but she was good at masking this. After a brief one-sided conversation she hung up the phone and looked at me.

“Mr. Smith wanted me to let you know that you are a wonderful manager?” she said, laughing and perplexed. “All you did is welcome him, I am the one who checked him in! You didn’t even do anything!”
“Are you trying to say I’m not wonderful?”
“Yeah, you’re wonderful, alright…”

An hour or so later I spotted Mr. Smith in the lobby working on his laptop. He was facing my direction, so it was hard to avoid making any sort of eye contact. I wondered if he was going to approach the desk and shower me with more unfounded compliments. Alas, he remained seated for a while before hitching the elevator back to his room. I postulated that he was utilizing the free wireless internet in the lobby. I decided to send him up a bottle of wine as a surprise amenity, mostly to justify his previous claim about me.

My shift was nearly over for the evening, and I was looking forward to going home. The lobby and desk were slow, making time drag unbearably. The phone rang once more, and I answered it quickly out of boredom. It was Mr. Smith.

When I asked how I could assist him he informed me that he was struggling with an audio visual issue for a presentation he would be giving the next day. He wasn’t sure what cord he needed to connect from his laptop to the projector. I figured this would be another opportunity to impress him and live up to my newly acquired reputation.

“Does your laptop have an HDMI port? We have those cables available, as well as others,” I said in my over-the-top hotel management character voice.
“I’m not sure…”
“Would you like me to come up and check for you?” I was used to people in our hotel lacking any technological saavy.
“That would be great, whenever you get a chance,” he replied before hanging up.

I grabbed a radio and informed my staff that I would return shortly after helping Mr. Smith. I made my way up to his room, happy to have a bit of an escape from the Front Office. It felt good to walk the floors every now and again.

He opened the door and moved aside so I could walk in as we exchanged hellos.The amenity I sent up was set up on the desk, his laptop on the bed, and a bottle of personal lubricant on the nightstand. “How embarrassing,” I thought. “He must have forgotten to hide the lube. Or maybe he just isn’t shy.”

I picked up his laptop which was probably the newest version Mac had released. I turned it on its side to look at the ports and found that they were all very clearly labeled, including HDMI. Looking up, I realized that he had moved much closer to me as I was examining his device. I was about to speak when he took his hand and put it on my waist. “Ah,” I thought. “What a fool I am to fall for such a thing. I’ve been lured.”

I had worked in the industry for so long, I wondered how this could have never happened before. It’s not as if I had been aging well, and this man was actually pretty attractive. Older than me, as per usual, with strong facial features and slightly thinning ginger hair and a bit of a belly. I knew it was against policy, but I didn’t want to ignore the opportunity lest I regret it later. What if this is my only chance?

What started with making out quickly turned into him trying to get pieces of my suit off, with particular attention to my pants. He pushed me back onto his bed and eagerly pulled out my dick. He sucked like a Hoover, as if he had been waiting to do this for a long time.

He grabbed for the lube, conveniently within arms-reach as he had planned. And just like that he rode me like I was a dive bar mechanical bull. The only problem was his inability to control the volume of his voice.

“You have to be more quiet, or we’re going to get a noise complaint,” I said sternly. “And I’m the manager who’s going to be called to deal with it.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he spit out.
“It’s okay, just… enjoy my dick silently.” It was an awkward thing to say, but it worked.

I could see it wouldn’t take long for him to erupt and had to scramble to move my dress shirt and tie out of the way. You never really know how much a guy is going to cum. As it would turn it in this case – a lot.

I didn’t have time to worry about “getting mine” so to speak; I needed to get back into my suit and return to the desk. I was imagining my karma coming around in the form of a fire in the lobby due to my absence. Hotels brainwash their employees well and ingrain guilt deep into their souls.

As I was fixing my hair in his bathroom, Mr. Smith asked, “You are clean, right?”
“First of all, that is a conversation we should have had before you hopped on my cock. And secondly, yes, I am STD free.” I replied curtly.
“Good, I need to stay clean for my wife.”

Wife. He said wife. He’s married? The man was obviously gay, how could this be? Does his wife know? Do they have an agreement? Or is she some delusional belle waiting for him at home while he gets his jollies travelling for work? Is he one of those traditional Texans on the down low afraid to come out of the closet? All of these questions and more were racing through my mind in that moment. Not only did I not have time to fish for answers, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know the truth. Did it matter? The deed had been done. My heart was so conflicted.

“I come back to this hotel every three months, ya know?” he said, breaking the silence.
“I didn’t know that, no.” I had to play nice and act casual. After all, he could get me in trouble if he really wanted to.
“Yeah, I’ll have to find you again when I come back!”
“Well…you know where to find me, Mr. Smith.”


Behind Closed Doors

Some of my greatest misadventures in dating have occurred while living in Austin, prior to meeting my now fiancé. Meeting someone in person is considered old fashioned at this point, so most of those who are fishing for attention and affection must turn to “the apps”. In the gay world that means: Grindr, Scruff, Growlr, etc. I had an active profile on all of them at one point with the intention to either find a boyfriend or at least get laid.

While browsing the man-buffet of pictures on my phone, I stumbled across a gent I found to be rather attractive. He was a bit older than me, well proportioned, and had intense eyes that somehow complemented a large, genuine smile. His name was Trevor, according to his profile, and I decided it was worth a shot to send him a message.

It’s always awkward trying to start conversations with a stranger whether you are in person or have a screen barrier. If you’re looking to seem date-worthy you have to start with something better than “Hey, what’s up?” And if you’re looking to get your dick wet, you have to decide ahead of time how long you should engage in pointless small talk before sending nudes.

I managed to initiate a conversation that eventually resulted in us agreeing to meet at my favorite watering hole for drinks and karaoke. Although, I should mention, we did unlock our “private” collection of photos for each other. With that said, I wasn’t really sure what to expect for the evening.

When I arrived at the bar I recognized him almost immediately. He was sitting with another gentleman who was probably twice my age and quite spindly. His face seemed to have only one expression – a look of both constipation and confusion.

I grabbed a drink before approaching him and the man sharing his table.
“Trevor, right?”
“Travis? Take a seat.” I did. He went on to introduce his friend Pete.

Trevor and I hit it off immediately, and he even complimented me on my singing voice when I would return from the microphone. He was speaking my language with a dry sense of humor and constant use of sarcasm. Even flirting. However, I noticed a closeness between him and Pete that went well beyond friendship. Perhaps I was being paranoid.

Pete got up to sing a pitchy rendition of a song no one else knew as Trevor and I stood and watched. “How do you know him, again?” I asked.
“He’s my boyfriend,” he replied. I laughed involuntarily, completely unsure of whether or not he was messing with me or being serious. I decided not to press forward with any more questions at the risk of embarrassing myself. Instead, I was left wondering whether or not I was invited to a date with two men instead of one. Or maybe it wasn’t a date at all. The mystery wouldn’t solve itself that night, because Trevor ended up getting too drunk and left without saying goodbye. My pride and ego gasped for air before perishing together in a romantic tragedy. I imbibed a while longer to drown my sorrows.

Some months later I ran into Trevor again at that same bar, this time without Pete around to spoil the environment. He greeted me with a tight bear hug, and I immediately dropped any sense of resentment I had been holding against him. Trevor had a quality that I can only describe as mesmerizing, for better or worse.

We shared a pitcher of beer together and spent most of the evening making fun of the poor karaoke performances that night. As it would turn out he didn’t care much for karaoke to begin with and only went for Pete’s sake.
“So if you don’t like karaoke, why are you here without your boyfriend?” I asked, tripping over the last word a bit too noticeably.
“I dunno, I can’t resist the cheap PBRs, I guess,” he joked. “We’re open, ya know, me and Pete.”
“Oh?” My eyebrows raised with suspicion and intrigue. The game had changed.
“Yeah, you want another beer?”

My sides and cheeks were aching from laughter the more time we spent together self-medicating on piss-colored beer.
“Wanna go down to 4th Street?” he asked. This is an area in town where there is a cluster of gay bars. Although most of the patrons of these establishments are young twinks and witless jocks, I didn’t want to reject his suggestion. I wanted my evening with him to continue, regardless of where it was.

We walked and stumbled for a few blocks before entering a nightclub buzzing with effeminate young men, drag queens, and go-go boys. It wasn’t my scene, and I didn’t expect it was Trevor’s either. However, there was a nice patio in the back that provided cabana like structures with an arrangement of couches and chairs. We got our drinks and found a place to get comfortable.

Our conversation shifted from poking fun at karaoke singers to judging the shameless boys prancing around in their underwear belting out Katy Perry lyrics between shots of some green-colored concoction. Our chuckling subsided into a silence that transitioned into very direct eye contact – the kind that signals for action. We began to make out, and everything else disappeared. Trevor was a damn good kisser, and as I said before, mesmerizing.

We broke for a moment and he asked if I wanted to go back to the bar where we started. When I asked why he said, “Because I want to see you try to walk with that!” I followed his eyes to my crotch which I had somehow neglected to notice during our public displays of affection. I reached into my shorts and readjusted myself in one of the few ways us men can really manage. We’re limited to pushing it down to be held poorly by the elastic of our underwear, or flipping it up into the waistband of our pants. You have to be careful not to let your shirt lift up once you’ve committed to the latter, lest you reveal the top half of your schlong. We’ve all been there, men. You’d think it would get easier to play the “How Do I Hide My Boner?” game after surviving puberty, but that’s not really the case. I digress…

Trevor and I did indeed return to the first bar which was now considerably more crowded than before. The night owls had come out to play.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he said to me.
“Okay.” My eyes were wandering around the room, analyzing new bodies and faces.
“No, I mean, I’m going to the bathroom…” he said again, this time with a mischievous grin and a no-longer disguised agenda.
“Oh!” He walked away leaving me with a difficult decision. Do I follow him and risk getting caught having sex in a public restroom? Should I stay? Should I go? Am I really about to do this?

Perhaps it was the alcohol thinking for me, but I ended up casually wandering into the men’s bathroom. I found him waiting there in an open handicap stall with the shit-eating grin of a champion spread across his face. He pulled me in and locked the door.

Now having sex in a gay bar’s facilities doesn’t sound very appealing, but it’s actually more thrilling than I had previously thought. And kudos to him for picking a handicap stall that had convenient metal bars around to hold on to. This probably wasn’t his first rodeo.

We made no attempt to be quiet in any way. My worry about being caught flew out the window, replaced by primal lust and reckless indiscretion. We heard other men coming in and out of the restroom, carrying on conversations and seemingly ignoring the distinct sound of sex. Perhaps this was more common than I thought. Now it had become an auditory performance.

I have no idea how long we fucked, but at some point after climaxing we both realized that the bar would be closing soon. We dressed ourselves and peered out the stall door. The garbage had already been bagged up and tied by some poor barback who most likely experienced a symphony of our moans.

Trevor and I made our way out of the bathroom and found a backdoor to sneak out of. I’m not sure what the point of protecting our identities was at that point, but it felt like the right thing to do.

“Well that was fun,” I said, still somewhat out of breath.
“Yeah, we should do it again sometime,” he said with a nod.
“Maybe even in a bed?”
“You’re not that boring, Travis,” he joked.



Mixed Massage

I’ve experience lower back pain for most of my adult life. Some of this comes from reckless behavior in my youth at music festivals where I foolishly allowed crowd surfers to be thrown at my head. The rest resulted from an injury I sustained after a drunk driver turned in front of me, totaling my car and nearly crippling me in the process.

I believe everyone should get massages regularly, as they are relaxing and benefit physical and mental health. I used to go to a massage school in Las Vegas where I received cheap rub-downs often from students trying to get their certification hours in. Most of them were pretty adept, surprisingly, including an older woman who would ultimately be in charge of my last session at that facility.

For those of you who have never had a massage, they typically tell you to “disrobe” or “strip down” to your comfort. This is a polite way of them letting you know that you may remove your undergarments if you wish. I had previously never done so, but felt it was time to really get into a full body experience this time around.

After settling under the sheet, the woman entered through a curtain that kept us separated from the other cubicles of naked bodies. I closed my eyes and prepared for healing hands to start kneading into my aching muscles. Everything was going well until she reached my legs. Specifically my inner thighs.

Why she decided to go to town in a way that seemed like she was jerking off my hamstrings is unknown to me still. What I do know is that the physical stimulus conjured up a raging erection that turned that white sheet into a pop-up tent.
“Why?!” I thought to myself. “Is this batty old woman going to think I’m turned on? I’m gay! This shouldn’t be happening! I can never return!”

She ignored my very obvious boner and continued on until I eventually left the school with my tail between my legs. After doing some internet research, I found this tends to happen to a lot of men. But nonetheless, I decided I would only receive massages from men henceforth, believing there would be a better understanding should it happen again.

Fast-forward to my recent past here in Austin. My back was troubling me once more, and I needed to find a new massage therapist for some relief. I naively searched online for “male massage” and found endless listings of fuckboys masquerading as “experts of the body”.
This all sounds very exciting, but I needed a legitimate massage, not a romp in the sheets.

Finally I found an ad for a guy named Brian who wasn’t presenting a thinly veiled invitation to pay for sexual gratification. He was one of few who was fully clothed in his profile picture and avoided using any innuendos or euphemisms in the description of his at-home business. I made an appointment via e-mail and was reassured by his professionalism.

The date arrived, and I approached his penthouse condo. The door opened to a man who was much more handsome in person than I had expected, as well as three pugs that were yapping in response to my existence. He quieted them down and directed me to his “office”.

The table was located in the master bedroom, but it seemed entirely irrelevant at the time. He provided a hot shower with towels, aromatherapy, and a myriad of candles dressing the perimeter of the room. He left me to “disrobe to my comfort”, so I got naked and folded my clothes neatly in the corner. There was no sheet to get under on the table, so I laid face-down, unabashed with my ass up for all to see.

He entered the room and began conversing with me, I think in an attempt to make me feel more comfortable. He was a Louisiana boy, and his accent would betray him should he ever try to deny it. The massage wasn’t that great to begin with, but he was friendly in the very least. It’s hard to imagine feeling more vulnerable than being blindly naked on a table while a man is hovering over you. I deflected any sense of awkwardness by slipping coy humor and witty jokes into our talk – a natural defense mechanism I use as a sturdy crutch. He talked about his obsession with Mickey Mouse and even mentioned that he had an absurdly large plush collection as well as a tattoo of the iconic cartoon on his lower back. Perhaps this was his own crutch.

Brian passed along the table and his leg brushed up against my arm ever so gently. It took me a moment to register, but I was feeling his skin against mine. The hair and musculature of his upper thigh grazed against my resting limb. “Is he naked?” I thought to myself with mild panic. I pretended not to notice, and he continued around the table to reach new areas of my body.

He passed again along the other side of the table and hesitated. It was then that I felt the full weight of his junk in my upturned hand. He didn’t linger for long. Just long enough to let me know he too had abandoned his clothes entirely.

Our conversation continued normally as I did my best to ignore the situation at hand. But I knew it was almost time for me to flip over. In only moments I would be face-to-face with the masseur circling my table – a fit man with strong hands and a full-on display of his wedding tackle, as well as the aforementioned Mickey Mouse tattoo.

I attempted to avert my eyes in the least obvious way possible, but felt the blood rushing to my cheeks. He was quite the specimen to behold, truly. I thought back to the old woman in Vegas who aroused me without meaning to. His intentions seemed to welcome it.

Brian continued pressing his thumbs and the heels of his hands into my muscles, moving his fingertips to my legs and groin. “My, my,” he said, watching the inevitable rise before him. He smirked at me with satisfaction. “What do we have here?” It was a rhetorical question, I hoped, as the only response I could think of was, “My penis?” I laughed nervously and mustered a smile reminiscent of Shrek.

Without another word his hands wrapped around my dick and I found myself in some kind of fantasy world I had actually tried to avoid initially. There was no going back now, though. I figured I might as well enjoy myself. And so I did.

He motioned over to his bed, which looked much more comfortable and accommodating for sexual conduct than the table I was laid out on. There’s something to be said about having sex after a massage. Suddenly my lower back wasn’t presenting itself as an issue any further.

My happy ending arrived simultaneously with his own. “Perks of the job,” I thought to myself. “I wonder if this is going to cost me extra?” My mind reeled at the idea of managing to accidentally engage in what was essentially a hired prostitute with benefits.

“I hope you come around more often,” he said. “At first I thought you weren’t going to want to play. What took you so long?”
“I… wanted a massage?” I said, unsure of how to answer other than with honesty.

He left me in privacy to shower in a bathroom much fancier than my own. I dried off, dressed myself, and met him back in the living room.

“How much do I owe ya?” I asked. “Do I throw cash on the bed, or what?” I joked. He ended up charging me the rate previously indicated for a massage, much to my surprise.
“When am I going to see you again?” he asked, as if we had just ended our first date.
“When I need another massage, I suppose,” I replied, earnestly. We had built up an odd sense of comfort around each other in a short amount of time.
“Hopefully not too long,” he said with an air of Southern charm.
“I’m sure we’ll see each other soon,” I said, lying through my teeth. After all, I was only looking for a massage.

Three Doors Down

No, this post has nothing to do with an iconic rock band that may bring back memories of an overly emotional late 90’s existence. If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman? Well, I would certainly hope not. But while we’re on the subject of the Man of Steel, we all have something that makes us weak – we all have our own personal kryptonite that brings us to our knees, sometimes literally. For some of us gays, it is a straight man.

Now it is no secret at this point that human sexuality has an intangible fluidity that escapes explanation at times. So, “Why not?” says the gay man looking for a challenge.
I personally never cared much to waste my time pining after heterosexual men, regardless of whether or not I thought I was able to lure one in. That is, until, I met the man who lived three doors down.

He would stand outside his apartment door smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer just about every time I passed by. We never exchanged many words, just empty phrases that were born from a sense of obligation. Months passed without us even knowing each other’s names.

As chance would have it, I adopted an overly gregarious roommate who managed to make friends with just about every tenant in our miserable complex. Before I knew it, there were strangers in my apartment being introduced to me as if I was new to my own home. They all meant well, of course, and even invited me to a BBQ at our communal pool.

“That’s the man from three doors down,” I said to my roommate as we approached the pool gate with towels and cans of beer.
“That guy?” he replied, “Oh, that’s Jason.”

He didn’t look much better with his shirt off than he did with it on, but there was still something alluring about him. Perhaps it was the camouflage swim trunks and goofy smile that were capturing my attention. Or the fact that he was so eager to tell me his life story.

He grew up in Florida with his devilishly handsome brother, often finding himself in trouble with the law. He married too young and had children well before he was ready to take on the responsibilities of parenthood. His wife left him after a few years, being unimpressed with his lack of money or motivation. From there he moved to Texas to live with his father where he would continue to cycle through girlfriends who wanted to take a turn with a kind-hearted bad boy alcoholic.

“So, you’re gay?” he asked me. Apparently my roommate felt inclined to inform Jason of my sexual orientation beforehand.
“Mostly,” I replied, which is my go-to answer when I’m asked that particular question.

He reassured me that there was nothing wrong with being gay, as if he wanted to suddenly become my therapist. I nodded and smiled politely. He asked me questions about being gay and how it played into my own life story. I indulged his requests, and he soon came to know more about me than most.

The night ended, and I remember laying in bed thinking about him. Not sexually, necessarily, just as a new character in my life.

On a warm summer evening I found myself chatting with him on the patio of another neighbor I would have never met had it not been for my roommate. He told me wild tales about the various physical altercations he engaged in, including a run-in with Hell’s Angels. He had a story for every scar.

He was uninhibited by nature, but the beer seemed to push him just a little further.
I came to realize this as he randomly told me of a time he accidentally slept with a transsexual he mistook to be an ebony goddess. “I don’t remember, but I think I had her dick in my mouth. And it was bigger than mine! Does that make me gay?” he asked. I merely shrugged. “Well, whatever. When I get drunk, sometimes I just want to find a warm hole.” He made it easy to either laugh with him, or laugh at him. I fell asleep that night still chuckling to myself.

It was autumn now, and Jason and I were accustomed to making small talk outside his door. I’d bum a cigarette and a beer off of him after work sometimes, or find him Skyping on the stairwell with some girl from his past that he couldn’t wait to introduce me to in person. I never lingered very long, though I could sense his loneliness. My roommate had moved out some time ago, so I could relate to that. But it didn’t explain the curious way he would look at me sometimes.

One evening I laid in bed, letting time slip idly by, waiting to become tired enough to justify an attempt to sleep. But then I heard a knock on my door. I lived in a bad part of town at the time, which made me wary of unannounced guests. Especially now that I lived alone.

Upon opening the door I found Jason holding a 12-pack of Budweiser. “Hey, man,” he started, “You’re not going to bed are you?” Although I was wearing nothing but a bathrobe, I declined any notion of slumber and invited him in.

We sat on the couch, and mostly I found myself listening to more stories from his past. He seemed more vulnerable than ever though, like he just needed someone to care. Suddenly I had been confronted with my own kryptonite.

He followed me to the kitchen to retrieve another beer. We were both drunk already, but then again, Jason was always inebriated to some degree. I noticed him subtly look me up and down as I tilted my head back to chug. And then there was a silence.

“You know I’m just stalling for time, because I know something is going to happen, right?” I was used to gay men who are so much more direct. But still, I knew what he wanted.
“Yeah,” I said nonchalantly, “but it ain’t happenin’ in the kitchen.”
“Where do I go?” he asked, dumbly. I took his hand and brought him to my bedroom.

Without hesitation I dropped my robe and began ripping his clothes off.
“This is just sex,” he said. “I don’t want anything else…” he said sternly as I fell to my knees.
I looked up at him”Get over yourself, do you think I’m going to ask you to be my boyfriend or something?”
“Well you can’t tell anyone, no one can know.” he said while resisting to moan.
I pulled my head back. “Who would I even tell, Jason? We can keep talking, or I can suck your dick. I can’t do both.” He said nothing more.

I stood up and pushed him onto my bed. He was taller and stronger than me, but I suddenly felt a certain power over him. If I was going to be his experiment, I might as well take control of it.

“I’ve never had better head in my life,” he said while arching his back.
“Of course you haven’t,” I said confidently.
“Are we gonna fuck?” he asked, earnestly.
“I think that’s pretty obvious,” I replied, rifling through my nightstand for a condom.

It took him a second to figure out a rhythm, and he looked slightly terrified. After many welcomed thrusts, his noodle began to go limp. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. It’s not you, I just don’t think I’m gay!” he said with a sense of alarm in his voice.
“Perhaps not, but it was worth a try, right?” I said, standing up.
“Where are you going?”
“Get dressed, I’m seeing you to the door.”
“Just like that? You’re kicking me out?”
“Yeah, what do you want to cuddle?” I said with a laugh.
“You’re not mad at me, are ya?” he asked.
“No, I want to go to bed, fool. We’re neighbors, I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He collected what was left of his beer, and I closed the door on him with a quick goodbye.
I returned to my bed, the scene of the crime. “I did it,” I thought. “I had sex with a straight guy. The guy from three doors down.”